


Bereavement

by Grain_Crain



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, SAS boys appear near the end, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 15:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16222139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grain_Crain/pseuds/Grain_Crain
Summary: Thatcher has a horrible coping mechanism when he loses someone very precious in his life. Capitao talks to the stubborn Brit, voluntarily upon a request. Will Thatcher ever be more honest about his inner turmoil?





	Bereavement

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [kiki_92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiki_92) for the thorough proof reading! Also I thank [ee-vvaa](http://ee-vvaa.tumblr.com/) and [Aesos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aesos/pseuds/Aesos) for beta reading and sharing some amazing ideas.

“-shall we arrange that for you, Mr Baker?”

“Thank you. I shall contact the relatives within a week or so.” His hand clamped tightly on the handle, a desperate attempt to get a grip on reality. Mike sat still in his desk and mulled over the sudden and yet expected news. It’s all part of natural order. Something that cannot be stopped even if some people die trying. He gave himself no time to dwell on what he had just heard and called a few different numbers to arrange an untimely leave from his duty. The voices over the phone reacted appropriately, almost making Mike appear abnormal for sounding immorally calm.

“Maggie!” There’s only one person who would call him such name, “time for pub.” James leaned against the door frame and appeared flushed from many of his pre-drinks.

“Not today, Porter.” Mike gathered the necessary documents and squeezed past James out of his office.

“Whoa, hey,” James followed and placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “You alright, mate?”

“Mm. Go and enjoy your evening.” Although Mike knew how uncharacteristically pensive he sounded, he couldn’t exert anything other than emptiness at that moment. James moved his hand away and watched his senior intently as if he was unsure on what to make out of Mike’s demeanor. “Actually, there is one thing that I need you to do.” Mike sighed and clenched his eyes shut to disperse tears from welling up.

“Yeah?”

“Call your parents once in a while. Take some time to visit them.” He didn’t wait for James to respond and walked away before his feigned apathy broke. The overwhelming sense of guilt and regret came in the form of whirlpool that dragged his conscience into an abyss of self-doubt. Ignoring the tiny voices that accused him of being a hypocrite, Mike paid attention to more pressing matters that egged him on. Completing the written process in preparing for bereavement leave was easier than he thought, but the thought of going back to Bideford filled his heart with dread. Oh well. It must be done, no matter what. Mike left the base without notifying any of his colleagues, not wanting to be bothered by sympathetic gestures. Couple of weeks should be enough to finish everything that needs to be done, and perhaps he could catch at least a minute to hold his mother’s cold hands for the last time on this plane of existence.

 

* * *

 

Some say Mike should have taken more days to rest and ease his mind from the loss. He begged to differ and argued that his workload wasn’t going to be done by itself. Terrorists kept poking around the world here and there, ravaging so many different places over those two weeks of Mike’s absence. As if he hadn’t got enough things to worry about, his colleague also distracted him with the muffled murmurs and whispers. He appreciated the genuine concerns for his health and tried to ignore the wondering rumours of his retirement. Mike decided to regard all these gossips to be simply superficial. Since people didn’t dare to approach the man who bears the name ‘Thatcher’, a living legend who represents the history of SAS, he reciprocated the similar sentiments by keeping himself strong and steady as if nothing had happened. After a month passed since his mother’s funeral, the crowd stopped talking about his bereavement and finally left him alone in peace. Mike continued to work as hard as ever and packed his schedule tight to the point of fatigue. A second on a mattress was all it took for him to fall asleep and that's exactly what he wanted.

All was fine until his sporadic insomnia kicked in and threw his sleeping cycle off. There were some nights when he couldn’t sleep at all. No matter how Mike tortured his eyes dry by filing endless amount of paper works, or worn his body out by attending training programmes for the new recruits, he couldn’t rest. He knew that alcohol wasn’t the best solution in a long haul but hell, it worked like wonders. Well, only for the first few nights because getting a quality sleep became more of a wishful thought as his insomnia progressively became worse. Convincing himself that this would soon pass, Mike continued to lounge around in the kitchen and sipped on a flask filled with hard liquour. These rare occasions soon turned into a habit, a ritual that he followed even on nights when he felt dead tired. Thankfully the little sips didn’t move onto bigger gulps, or else that would render him an alcoholic.

Tonight isn’t any different than yesterday or weeks before. He tiptoes out of the bedroom, is dead sure to put his sneaking skills in good use and finds himself a nice corner to simmer down. Everything seems ordinary in the dark kitchen but as his eyes adjust in the darkness, he begins to notice silhouette of a figure. The person is still and slouched against the wall so Mike assumes it’s an unfortunate idiot who has fallen asleep from over-exhaustion.

“Stupid youngster.” Mike grumbles as he walks around to find a substitute for a blanket. He finds a tablecloth, figures it should do the job and approaches the figure.

“Not really stupid or young, but thank you.” The man chuckles. Even more so when Mike stumbles out of surprise.

“Souza? What in the world are you doing here?” Mike scowls and tosses the clothes at the man, then returns to his favourite spot.

“Just here to spectate on a sleep-walking, strange old man. Did you think you were _that_ quiet?” Vicente stretches his body and grunts when a joint pops. He glides over to the cupboard and rummages around, causing minor clinks.

“I guess your hearing is _that_ keen, since you’ve lost half of your vision and all.” Mike huffs and watches Vicente rinsing out some dusty cups. His aged forehead crinkles deeper, clearly showing his annoyance towards the unwanted company. “You haven’t answered my question. What brings you here?”

“Don’t make me a creep,” Vicente shrugs, “I have been asked to check up on you. I’m not the only one who’s been noticing your recent changes.”

“Is it the lads?” Mike asks and refers to the younger SAS operators.

“That’s a classified information. Just be glad that you have good Samaritans worrying over you.” Vicente walks towards Mike with a faint whistle and gently places the cups on the table while holding an unlabelled bottle. Stream of lustrous amber captivates Mike and within a few seconds, he is handed with a glass. Judging by the sweeter aftertaste, Mike assumes bourbon.

“Pereira won’t be happy to see you drinking more than bare minimum.” Mike swirls it around and observes, contemplating whether he should take this sweet offer.

“She can sulk all she wants. I am doing us a favor.” Vicente scoffs, gulps his share in one go then asks, “have you looked yourself in the mirror?”

“Sure. Same old face.” Mike replies half-heartedly. He takes a tiny sip and indulges on fragrant aroma spreading through the tip of his tongue.

“You look death-struck.” Vicente sits on the same bench and waits for a reaction from his crude joke.

“Oh, because I’ve attended a funeral. My _mother’s_ funeral.” Mike returns the stare with a glare.

“Not going to apologise for that one.” Vicente pours himself some more and sits next to Mike.

“Cheeky cunt.” Mike rolls his eyes and pretends to be offended but doesn’t bother to hide his curled lips. It’s not the most clever joke from the chatty Brazilian but utter tiredness combined with the effect of alcohol is wearing Mike’s tough facade down. He closes his eyes and grumbles at how they burn mildly from being sleep-deprived.

“Make this your last drink.” Vicente refills Mike’s cup.

“For tonight, sure.” Mike eagerly sips on what’s been poured, then slows down to make sure his share will last longer.

“No, for a long while.” The sternness from Vincente is understandable but Mike is beyond tired to care about the kind intentions. He desires an instant gratification from the effects of alcohol, not some sort of life lecture from a person who isn’t his superior.

“That isn’t your decision to make.” Mike replies with his eyebrows raised.

“You mother would have said so.” A sharp slam immediately follows. It’s a miracle that cup is still intact; perhaps Mike has managed to put his temper aside for the sake of his hand.

“What a stale humour.” Both men are far from laughing.

“So is your bad habit. We are past the age of relying on booze without a self-control.” What Vicente has said rings some truth. Only some, because Mike isn’t in a tolerant mood for being treated like an irresponsible and immature youngster.

“I’ve got it under control.” that’s all Mike could muster within his thinning patience.

“You don’t. Your work ethic was already on borderline of being obsessive and now you are just drowning yourself with extra work until you wear yourself down.” The longer Vicente speaks, harder it is for Mike to swallow the false sense of pride. “It’s unprofessional.” Vicente lays down the final blow that cracks Mike’s composure. Cups shatter and Vicente remains seated without being fazed by the sudden outburst of commotion caused by the older male.

“It’s time for you to take your leave.” Mike doesn’t shout. He merely lowers his tone and issues out an order.

“No, I am here to talk.” Vicente drinks the last drop of bourbon and casually drops the empty bottle on the debris.

“I’ve got nothing to hear.” A clear dismissal but that doesn’t deter Vicente who leans against the door, preventing Mike from walking out in midst of their discussion.  

“I have plenty to talk about. When did you give yourself a time to think about your mother?” The elephant in the room is addressed. Vicente sets sturdy eye on the vet, studying every subtle fidget and flutter of movement. “Do you know the state that you are in? Have you talked to people about what you are going through?”

“A little.” Mike recalls the day after he returned from Bideford. Gilles was the first to rush in for a tight embrace, then Seamus and Mark followed along with equally somber and cautious look. Many shared their condolence and offered kind words, which Mike responded accordingly. “But there is no time to lose,” accordingly means that he deflected the genuine concerns with curt reassurances. The usual ‘I’m alright,’ or ‘I will be fine.’ Those kinds of white lies. He refused to appear shaken or distraught, “not when the international security is at stake. I’ve had more than enough time to grieve for her.”

“No, you haven’t.” Vicente disagrees. “This incessant working schedule leaves you no room to relax. No time to sit down and let your head think anything other than your duty.” A summary of what Mike has been putting himself through. It’s not an excuse but it wasn't his fault that workload came to him, not the other way around. Documents, reports, meetings and maintenance. Mike declined James and Seamus’ offer to share the load because he needed the physical drive to keep himself up and running.

Vicente cuts into Mike’s introspection and continues. “No time to think about your mother. The woman who you love and had loved you until her dying breath.” _That's a lie._ Mike denies the accusations because he has thought of her every moment before he sleeps, yearning for her presence.

“Enough.” Mike coughs dryly as he tries to untie a knot in his chest.

“If the depth of your love, your connection to her, is something so shallow to be forgotten within a month, then how dare you call yourself her son?” Vicente doesn’t hesitate to deliver his harsh piece of mind. He remains silent and still while watching Mike slamming the table down again, this time with his fist right in middle of the cluttered glass shards. No wince or yelp escapes from his throat because pure anguish is blocking any other sound within himself.

“You have no idea what you are talking about!” Mike snarls as he shudders in pain.

“Then tell me.” Vicente leers, unafraid and determined.

“Tell you what?” Mike leaps out of the table and storms toward, “that you are nothing but a blunt dimwit who doesn’t know how to shut his trap?” He grapples on Vicente’s collar, fully intending to thrash the man away from the door.

“No. Tell me about a man who has lost his mother.” Vicente holds his stance and pries the grip off but hold Mike’s wrist firm and tight, preventing the other from hitting back or moving away. “Tell me that it wasn’t some sort of a heartless killing machine that buried her. Who lead the funeral? Carried her coffin? Are you just husk of a man who felt nothing? Still feels nothing?”

“What do you want me to say?” Mike grunts in an attempt to throw a punch but falters. Curse the alcohol and worn-old body. “That I saw her laying there?” Nails dig in and bodies strain to gain dominance over each other but the victor is obviously clear from the start.

“Yes. Tell me more.” Vicente tightens the grip. This is not a brawl out of malice; more of a struggle of an understanding, empathy and compassion.

“You know what a dead person looks like,” Mike growls and brings his knee up for a kick, “all of us do,” and misses as Vicente arches back while maintaining the hold.

“Keep going.”

Mike hates to admit that he is obliging to the taunting encouragement and replies, “of course she was all in pieces, unlike what we see on daily basis.” Yes, he remembers the scenery of metallic white and marble tiles where the casket was held in. “She was laying there, alright. Peaceful and serene. It was her.”

“I see.” Vicente responds attentively.

“I held her hand and-” Mike pauses to catch a breath, “her hands felt smaller than how I remembered.”

“How so?”

“The scars and callous weren’t there anymore. They were her pride, after all those years she worked with my old man in the pier.” It was a vivid sensation that Mike felt as a child. Rough and bumpy against his unscathed fingers, and yet gentle they were, when she pat on his tearful cheeks whenever he cried over the silliest things. He began to understand the full meaning behind those gnarled palms as he became old enough to earn money for the family. “She didn’t want me to go, but I had to. I wanted to.” Part of the reason behind his enlistment to the army was to act as a good son who can support the household. The other part was his juvenile wonder as a young blood who wanted to see the world beyond Bideford. It was almost a guilty pleasure that soon came with heavy tolls of responsibility for his own life and the country’s. “Told her ‘ten more years.’ Then it became fifteen. Twenty. Thirty and I am still here, too busy on stabbing those bloody white masks. I didn’t even get to see her on deathbed.”

“She would have understood, Mike. It’s the nature of our work.” Vicente consoles and loosens the grip.

“They’ve told me that she called out my name, even on her last breath.” Mike squeezes harder in attempt to push down the quiver in his throat. “Doctors. Nurses. Hospice workers. All of them knew who Mike Baker is, because she-” his voice skips a beat, “she told them all. Almost every single day.”

“You’ve made her proud. Nothing’s wrong with that.”

“Proud of her son who wasn’t even there to hold her.” Unrestrained bitterness tastes worse than he imagined. He falters as remorse weighs him down. “She didn’t get to hear her son say goodbye.” Fond memories start to sting his eyes into deeper shade of red. His conscience takes on a nostalgic trip where he can smell her bland oat porridge that she made him eat every Sunday. When she gave him a cuddle, he felt her chest rising up and down, warm breath tickling his forehead as she sang lullabies. All that scolding and nagging will thoroughly be missed because no matter how much he hated them, they taught him priceless lessons. He forced himself to grow out of those childish comforts and thrived to repay her with the achievements that he earned as an adult. Stable home, regular expenditure and occasional jewelry and dresses. He thought he did enough but it wasn’t. It never was. He should have done more, expressed more and visited more when he had the chance.

“I miss her.” It’s futile to suppress the outburst. Mike cannot control the bottled up grief overflowing out of his aching heart. Lives. Loves. Connections severed because of the inevitable causes. Mike realises how arrogant he was to think that all those years of witnessing deaths would make him numb, but losing someone close is different from losing a comrade. He has been acting selfish and stupid, stubbornly focused on upkeeping with miserable facade that became toxic to him. He was slowly leading himself into a state of complete mess. “I’ve failed as her son.”

“Don’t you say such thing. You are her treasure that she has left in this world.” Vicente clasps on the shaky shoulders of a man who is finally opening himself up. He can feel the light tremor under his fingertips, slowly realising that the dam that Mike had built is broken now, flooding his entire being with emotions that cannot be contained any longer. “Take care of yourself, Mike. Respecting your feelings is also a way to respect her, and you know you can do better than avoiding what you feel. You are her legacy.”

“What use of being her legacy when I don’t have my own?” Mike sighs and holds onto Vicente’s hand. “Who will remember her when I die? Who will remember me?” Since the last of his intimate family is gone, the loneliness that he had been shunning has finally caught up.

“It’s not too late. You are still alive and well.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Upon studying his own hand, Mike squints at the wrinkles and scars which bears similarities to his mother’s.

“Alright. You are _still_ handsome and dashing, as you put it. Not much of an old prune yet. Maybe you can woo someone who is only a half drunk.” Vicente digs into his pocket and hands out a cleanish tissue to Mike.

“ _Vicente_.” Mike snaps while accepting the tissue to blow his nose.

“Fine. Within all seriousness,” Vicente sets his tone down,” I don’t think you should lose hope. You just need a slight adjustment in your life, a change, if you will. It’s time to tell your work that she is not going to make you stay up all night.”

“You have some strange metaphor there.” Mike rubs his temple to ease a headache from exhaustion and lack of sleep.

“Well, I would suggest you to retire but I know how much of a _louco_ that you are.”

“I am past the point of loving my work,” Mike looks up at his friend and shows a weak smile. “But I guess I need to file another divorce one day. Gotta find someone new.”

“Is that a joke?” Vicente laughs and nudges at the Brit who is already walking out of the kitchen.

“Quiet. You will wake the others.” Mike whispers and hides a smirk when Vicente mentions all the ruckus that had been made in the kitchen throughout the night. They chatter about their life story that involves family, friends and some of the younger operators within the base. The conversation reverts back to Mike describing details of his mother, but happier events and antics that they shared while she was still alive. Aspects of her such as habits, favourite kind of music, superstitions and pet peeves. Vicente comments on how a number of those are shown through Mike in their daily lives, giving them the comforting fact that their parents are living on within their lives.

 

* * *

 

“Well,” Mike stops in front of door that leads to the SAS quarters, “it will be a long while until I find someone.”

“You will get there.” Vicente replies while looking into his phone, “or maybe someone will come to you. Better not scare them away.”

“I will _work_ on it.” Both of them chuckle quietly, then falls silent for a moment. “Suppose I should have said this sooner, but I fully appreciate what you’ve said.” Mike leans close to the other and offers a hand to shake at first, then changes his mind for a stiff hug.

“Likewise, _amigo_.” Vicente reciprocates the intimacy and pulls his comrade in for more of a comfortable embrace.

“Thank you.” Mike whispers in gratitude as he loosens the hold.

“You are welcome. Now off you go.” Vicente urges to open the door. “They are waiting for you.”

“Who?” Just as Mike asks, the door swings open to reveal the Brit’s younger teammates.

“Thank you, Vicente.” Seamus repeats what Mike has just said while James pulls the confused older man in.

“We will work on it too. On finding this geezer a lover.” James beams even wider when Mike’s face turns into different meaning of red, indirectly admitting of eavesdropping.

“You lot! You wankers should be in bed.” Mike thrashes a little out of embarrassment. He has a long way to go in showing his softer side.

“Be gentle to them, Mike. They are your good Samaritans after all.” Vicente leaves his last comment of the night and strolls away, grinning from ear to ear. Silence fills in the room, allowing Mike to settle into the fact that his softer side has been revealed to more than one person.

“So.” Seamus breaks the awkwardness in the air, “how are you?”

“Good.” Mike replies and gives them a tight-lipped smile. He means it though. Not a fake reassurance that he had been giving to whoever asked him the same question. Genuinely curious, he asks “What were you lads doing, staying up so late?”

“I-" James replies, then stops to correct himself, “we were waiting for you.”

“What for?”

“Here.” A small box is pulled out of Mark’s pocket. When Mike opens it, there lay a shiny and round object glinting against dimly lit lamp. Silver, relatively weighty and hardy.

“A pocket watch.” Mike picks up the gift, studying it closer. “A rather nice one.” He murmurs and clicks the top button, then holds his breath at the sight of a familiar face inserted under the lid. The colour is a little darker but distinctively sepia. It's just like the collection of family photos from an album that should be resting in Mike’s desk drawer.

“Before you get mad, I would like to let you know that it was James who picked into your office’s lock.” Mark is quick to point fingers as he assumes the quiet old man is upset.

“Tosser! You are the one who wanted to scan all the photos into an USB. We still needed that album.” James gives Mark a hard shove.

“The album is safe back in your office, Mike. No photos missing.” Seamus shushes the bickering two and cautiously asks, “Is it okay?”

“Yeah.” Mike barely manages a whisper. He blinks on blurred vision and squeezes a droplet to fall on the picture of his mother. She is staring back at him while looking vibrant in her prime. What an irony to see her timeless youth being encapsulated on a device that measures time. “This is perfect.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” James sighs in relief then hugs the elder as if he was waiting for an approval. The other two immediately follow and surround Mike in a ring of cuddle. Mike wouldn’t have allowed such chummy physical contacts but he can make an exception from time to time. They are all here for him with the most thoughtful gesture that touched Mike’s soul to the core. He can't help but to break out in an uncontrollable sob, even more so when the younger men huddle in tighter to show their support. None of them seem to care the hot air trapped in between them nor their shoulders becoming wet. They hold each other for a while and nods in mutual respect, in which Mike’s tears turns into a relief.

Pouring out a set of heavy emotions is definitely better than keeping it to himself. It was something that he thought would crumble him to beyond repair. The sorrow appeared too devastating and unmanageable should he spill it out; and yet here he is, being reassured by his fellow men who reached out an understanding hand. Contrary to his fear, Mike feels intact, alive and secure. He is finally in touch within himself as he takes care of Thatcher and Mike Baker all at once. A step closer of being the proud son that his mother always thought of him to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Mike: So. Whose idea was it to give me a pocket watch?  
> James: Me.  
> Seamus: No, it was Morowa (Clash.)  
> Mike: Of course.  
> James: WAHT DO YOU MEAN, 'OF COURSE?'  
> Mark: You're a filthy thief AND a liar.
> 
>  
> 
> [Thank you for reading my first longest one-shot! I was inspired to write this fic when I held my dad's hand and felt it to be smaller than how I remembered. Then the train of thought went over to the far-future, imagining my parent's funeral and such. Then I crashed into dread. And got back up again. Then wrote this fic to get that dread out of my system.
> 
> Edit: Made a few changes because I didn't like how I used too many commas and made my sentences bit choppy. I hope this was a good choice to make.]


End file.
